Survival of the Fittest
by ForeverMATT
Summary: Mello, Matt, and Near are all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near are all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it. (Oh, and you'll notice that it's written in a new style. Let me know what you think.)

**Author's Note: **I just got back from having surgery, and this is the first thing that I was inspired to write. I know I need to continue the other fics I have started, but bear with me. Please, and thank you.

**KEEP IN MIND! **Mom's asleep and I hijacked my laptop to write this! I'm in a rush, so be mindful of errors! And... DON'T FORGET TO LOOK IN THE BARREL FOR THE KITTIES! There's, like, five of 'em! One is black, two are white, one is calico, and the other is made out of bubblegum. -But I might have dreamt that because my sources say that it doesn't make much sense. *confused*

**Lastly: **Am I the only one who thinks that ice cubes are like little square fish that swim in our drinks? Unless the cubes are the round kind.

* * *

...

Only one rule, they said. Who 'they' was, nobody knew. Then again 'nobody' was a generalized term. 'Nobody' could've been 'anyone' or 'everyone.'

That one rule... was as simple as could be.

The rule?

_One bag. No additional luggage._

One bag? Could it be that easy?

Why, yes it could, and it was.

-The bus was inconspicuous. Just an average charter bus for touring, with faded letters alongside a dull paint job. Nice clean headlights and tinted windows. Why the windows were tinted, nobody asked, and nobody recieved an answer.

What a wonderful symbiosis of imaginary beginnings and crude endings, one would imagine.

But again, that bus, as real as a bench and as abstract as oxygen, it pulled up to a rest stop, brakes squealing in protest and a hairy driver opening the door and gruffly beckoning passengers.

"One bag," the hairy man grumbled as a single person stepped aboard, shouldering a messenger bag and offering the kind of smile strangers share while perusing the aisles of a supermarket.

That smile on that lone passenger, so bright and charming... but so careless and routine, probably offered to kin and offenders alike. It was practiced, easy, and noncommittal.

The smile of a future politician.

The smile of someone who might lie through their teeth to present a case that was not theirs to contend.

That passenger, he walked right past the hairy man, blonde hair bouncing like the narcisistic bitch from the Brady Bunch. He offered the politically correct smile and turned away, not sparing a second glance as he eyed his empty surroundings on the short journey to the back, where he seated himself and pulled his brown suede messenger bag into his lap.

He looked out the window; the door cried angrily as it was coaxed shut.

Such a rickety old bus with such clean leather seats and freshly matted floors.

This passenger, blonde with blue eyes, still smiling... he noticed all these little details but said not one word to anyone -not that there was a soul of importance other than himself.

It was just him and that dirty, hairy old man in a flannel shirt and boots that smelled as if he trekked through a farm: that manure smell. Horse shit on his soles and fuzzy-knuckled hands on the wheel.

That man was the reaper that would guide everyone to their demise -not that they had any reason to think this.

This was just another trip to camp, the same trip that was made every year.

Nothing to worry about.

-The next stop came about an hour later. Just another boring town in the middle of nowhere. A small diner where a mother offers her son a hug and said son grabs a plastic WALMART bag with his left hand; the bag's contents rattle and the plastic handle stretches, warning of an oncoming breakage, but the holder quickly lifts the bag and hugs his right arm around it, protecting it like a mother hen to her chicks.

The bag doesn't break.

The redhead holding the bag takes a deep breath as the bus rolls to a stop and the door opens. He forces away all traces of apprehension, taking a step up, up, up and up.

There are four steps, all so close together, he notes mentally, still hugging his disposable bag and its jostling contents.

"One bag," a bearded man mutters.

The redhead nods, shifting his bag noisily in gest as he responds with: "my meds; I'm sickly, sir."

The man says nothing, and the redhead doesn't explain any further; instead, the new passenger takes a seat cattycorner from the driver. Then he places his bag in a small cubby above his head.

The bus door whines upon shutting and then they're rolling again.

This passenger is not like the blonde. He doesn't smile like a politician. He doesn't act like he's a bigshot. Instead, he's the exact opposite. His voice is small when he speaks. There is very little confidence in his stride; his hands shake like an old person at a nursing home.

And his eyes are hidden, not by hair or a conveniently placed shadow, but by the smoked lenses in a pair of swimming goggles.

"My name's Matt," he says to the driver, but he's ignored.

The ride continues.

The scenery never seems to change, and when it does, it's unappealing.

Hours pass.

There is no need to stop for gas. The fuel guage doesn't seem to move. But there is no need to worry just yet.

At least, not until the first passenger -the blonde with the cynical smile and predetermined lies -gets up and, gripping the edges of seats to aid his balance, gradually works his way to the front of the moving bus; he takes his bag with him -it's his precious cargo.

It's odd, he notes, batting his long lashes over his blue eyes, how the bus ride seems to fill him with dread; he's been to camp every year for as long as he can remember, but this feels different.

"I have to use the bathroom," he says to the driver once he gets to the front. His peripheral vision catches sight of another passenger, but he pays no heed. His attention is split between his engorged bladder and the driver. "When's the next rest stop?"

The driver doesn't answer.

The blonde takes on an agitated expression, brow creasing and lips thinning. "Dude, I have to piss. And I don't remember Math Camp being so far away. Can we take a detour or something?"

Again, the driver is silent.

But the redhead to the blonde's left speaks. "Math Camp?" His words are soft-spoken as they are choked out.

The blonde nods and feigns interest, hoping to distract himself from his need to excrete. "Yeah, Math Camp. I need to brush up on my Advanced Calculus."

And the redhead's hands shake more visibly; his bag rattles more with every bump in the road. "I might be on the wrong bus," he says meekly, head rolling off his neck and stopping quite suddenly; he's looking at the worn denim that covers his lap.

Arching a curious brow toward his hairline, the blonde seats himself next to his fellow passenger. "Where are you supposed to be going?"

"Basketball Camp," is the response. There's a pause before he adds with a hopeful lilt: "I'm Matt, by the way."

"Mello." A terse response.

Both boys are about the same age, but the fact is so obvious that neither seem to notice at all.

They both simultaneously turn their attention to the bus driver, so hairy and unkempt -he could never have a professional desk job looking like that. His beard is blanketed in yellowy-orange dust, presumably from Cheetos or Pork Rinds. That same dust rests on his dirty fingertips, tattling on his last morsels.

The hairy man says nothing. And the boys turn their attention back to each other.

"I'm going to Math Camp."

"I'm supposed to go to Basketball Camp."

"Why? You don't look like a ball player."

"I am."

"But you're scrawny, short, and I can hear you wheezing. You're not conditioned to be an athlete, Mac."

"My name's Matt, not Mac."

"Whatever."

Silence overtakes them. The bus driver coughs a few times with long intervals of quiet breathing in between.

It's hard to say how long they'd been on the road, but the sun outside the tinted windows has moved postions, showing the change of time throughout the day.

Chronology is funny.

The boys find their stomachs rumbling.

"I'm hungry," the blonde fusses.

"... I'm fine," whispers the redhead, but his stomache gurgles loudly, as if reprimanding him in some way. Then he reaches his bag from the cubby, pulls it into his lap, and peers inside.

Mello, all blonde and all confident, eyes the bag curiously. "Any snacks?" he presses, leaning close to get a peek, but what he sees isn't food.

Orange bottles with white caps. Prescriptions. All so full of tiny capsules.

Matt grabs a bottle, uncaps it, grabs two pills. Grabs another bottle, uncaps it, grabs one pill. Grabs another- he repeats the process until there's a variety of meds in his palm; then, as if swallowing a handful of those miniature M&M's, he swallows them all by pressing his hand to his open mouth and tossing his head back. Then he puts it all away and places his bag back into the cubby.

"No snacks," Mello says dryly, looking away and trying to ignore how he felt at what he just witnessed. Without asking or having it explained, he could guess that Matt was sick. After all, the redhead was pale, wheezed with almost every breath, and could hardly keep from trembling. Coming to this realization, the blonde got up and returned to his original seat in the back.

-At long last came another stop. By now, Mello has forgotten his need to urinate, and Matt has fallen asleep.

The driver pulls the lever that opens the door, and a third person finally boards the bus.

This kid, the latest passenger, he's crazy. His eyes are dull but his cheeks are stretched wide with a terrifying smile. He's paler than the sickly redhead and his feet are socked but not shoed. In his hands, he does not tote a bag. Instead, he carries a video camera with its red light indicating that it is in use.

"One bag," the driver says.

To that, the pale one says: "I have two."

"One bag," the driver repeats.

The pale boy holds the camera in one hand and scratches his head with the other, ruffling his white curly locks. Then he turns around, looking through the margin of the door that remains open.

There, standing just outside the old charter, is a man in a lab coat and slacks; he's holding two suitcases; his arms are lifted, offering either suitcase for someone to take.

Reluctantly, the pale passenger turns and steps off the bus long enough to grab one of the suitcases at random; then, with just a few short strides, he's on once again and taking a seat. He drops his suitcase in the middle of the aisle, uncaring of any form of courtesy or protocol.

He focuses on his camera again, filming the dirty, hairy bus driver, the sickly redhead, the mostly empty bus, and then, finally, the blonde with that ever present smile.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but before any sound emerges, the driver closes the door, which emits a terrible sound... and then he speaks, loud enough for all to hear.

"Passengers 1, 2, and 3-" his voice has a slight southern drawl and his every word is sharply annunciated. "Now that everyone is on board, we can head... to Wammy's."

"What about Math Camp?!" the blonde shouts.

The white-haired boy is sure to catch the outburst on film.

The redhead snores slightly but does not stir; this is also caught on camera.

The driver says nothing more.

Mello is unfortunately reminded of his bladder; it's ready to burst.

Matt's bag falls from the cubby and the bottles drop and roll in every direction, many popping open and emptying themselves all over.

And that pale, pale boy -the one with the camera -he sees it all. He holds it up to his face like a masquerade mask, and he films. And he smiles that frighteningly crooked smile, but no one cares to notice.

-Finally, the bus stops again.

This is the last stop, everyone knows.

There should be relief in this fact, but there is none.

The bus door opens, and the boy with the camera is the first one out. He's dragging his bulky suitcase behind him on tiny wheels, and he's recording anything and everything. The second person out is the blonde, his messenger bag over his shoulder and his bladder motivating him to sprint down the aisle and jump down the small set of stairs; he steps to the side and drops his pants to relieve himself. Then, finally, the redhead groggily awakens to his spilled medications before dropping to his knees and grabbing handfuls of the little orange bottles; his breath falls in panicking gasps as he gets up and stumbles down the steps, fearful of the little capsules he's leaving behind.

When the bus door groans and slides shut, the boys take in their new surroundings, but what they see wasn't anything what they expected.

-For the smart boy who wanted to enforce his intellect, the sickly boy that was full of jitters and wanted to be an athlete, and for the slightly manic boy that longed to show the world what he saw... life was over.

Everything they knew -their homes, schools, friends and families -was gone. Lost. Would never bee seen again.

But did they know this?

No, not yet.

Even as they looked at the sign that read "_Welcome to Wammy's: the Weight is Over_" and had several skulls that were graffitized around the text, they could not know the horror that was to come.

But the fear was there, in the pits of their stomachs, slowly trying to eat its way to their brains. Like parasites.

And all the blonde could think to say, was: "This isn't Math Camp."

And the redhead said nothing; he simply adjusted his goggles and tried to keep hold of the medications he cradled.

But... the boy that was decked out in all white, he focused his camera on his fellow teens and said: "No, this is Wammy's. And this... is Fat Camp."

...

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**/Uh...please give me some feedback on this. It might be left as a OneShot, but I could continue it. I dunno. Review? *MEOW FACE*/**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **I wasn't in my right mind when I started this.

* * *

...

This place -Wammy's House- it reeks of despondancy. The fences that line the perimeter are fashioned of grid iron and barbed wire: a nasty combination for the campers to behold.

Yes, campers. Homonids of the same generation all frollicking about in search of themselves in fun manners. A pie-eating contest, a sack race, pop-culture trivia- _Wait_!

No, that is not the way of Wammy's.

Wammy's is a different sort of camp.

The campers at Wammy's are slim and elegant and festering inside and out... And they never leave.

But again, the three newest members are unaware of this.

Instead of fretting over such things, they're looking at weathered cabins that they'll be bunking in; they're frowning at the lifeless trees that resemble upright driftwood; and they're grimacing at their fellow campers that trudge about like zombies, all gaunt with grey skin and balding scalps.

If this is camp, it's not very sanitary -a fact that is dully caught on film as the white-haired boy spies a young adult male falling onto all fours and retching stomach acids.

The redhead next to the camera holder drops his remaining meds and whispers: "I wanna go home. Dad will understand, and mom probably misses me."

The blonde huffs loudly, shifting his bag to his other shoulder before stepping in front of the other two. "It's camp," he says haughtily, "how bad can it be?"

And with that, the three of them walk past the vomitting young man and toward the cabin. The closer they get, the more closed in they feel.

The scent of formaldehide is carried to them on the wing of a slight breeze, and the redhead looks sick; the blonde wrinkles his nose; the pale boy keeps filming.

They reach the cabin. The door opens before a hand is even laid upon it. One at a time, they step inside.

It's dark.

Like in a B-rated horror flick, the door shuts behind them.

The boys can't see.

"There's gotta be a light," Mello says, feeling around blindly.

"No electricity," the albino says.

Matt doesn't say anything. Instead, he carefully removes his goggles and drops to the floor in a crouch. He doesn't want to go further until the darkness goes away. Nobody is aware that he is frozen in place, afraid of the dark, and he doesn't call out to them.

"I'm Near, by the way," the pale one says, still holding that camera -it looks so expensive, at least, it did when they were all able to see properly.

"Mello," came the nearby response -such an informal yet non-friendly introduction. In many ways, it matched his political smile.

Mello and Near wordlessly agree to walk side by side, neither wary of Matt's absence as hey sightlessly wander deeper into the cabin, not finding anything substantial to latch onto, nor any light to aid their travel.

"It's too dark," Mello says finally.

"I can see just fine," Near follows, holding his camera out.

The blonde takes a look and realizes that the camera features multiple settings and is adjusted for enhanced visibility in dark surroundings.

Some would call it Night Vision, but that would be inaccurate.

"It has an infrared setting too," Near states condescendingly.

Then, using the camera for guidance the two boys continue to look, keeping close to one another for reasons their minds cannot fathom.

After only a few minutes, they find another being, this one having a mass of wild unkempt hair and blood red eyes. This guy, his face and shirt and hands are stained in red, but on his shirt, looking perfectly immaculate in it's laminated seal, is a tag that reads: "_Camp Counselor_."

In an attempt to appear fearless, Mello approaches first, face steeled in determination and that practiced smile carving his face into a mass of unease as he speaks. "We need to use a phone. We're at the wrong camp."

But the counseler only laughs. "We're all at the wrong camp," he explains happily, face twisted in a show of glee. "And you'll always be at the wrong camp."

Mello takes a deep breath before trying again. "Can we use a phone?"

"No phones. No tv. Nothing," says the counselor, stifling a laugh that tumbles out of his mouth. "Your rooms are down the hall and to the left. If you need me, ask for Beyond Birthday. I'll come to you if you're not dead yet."

"I'm not in the mood for this," Mello states, taking the camera from Near and instructing him to follow.

Without a single complaint, the sock-clad boy obliges, and soon the two are entering their designated room -a room that, thankfully, has a kerosene lantern lit for their benefit.

The two rest on wooden bedframes that have box springs but no mattresses.

And the blonde frowns before saying: "Kid, you're sticking with me. Alright?" He adds that last part hesitantly, showing his first bit of real humanity to a peer.

Said peer, however, smiles awkwardly and says: "You're scared. But why? It's just Fat Camp."

Mello doesn't answer. Instead, he asks: "Where's Matt."

"Who?"

"The redhead. The sick one."

Just then, a loud, ear-piercing scream broke the sound barrier and left them speechless. A moment later, the door is yanked open and that odd counselor trips in before shutting and locking it. He looks to the two younger teens and offers a smile. "It's gonna be okay," he says, simply raising a hand to reveal something in his bloody grasp. "I took his kidneys."

And Mello looks sick.

And Near steals back his camera to document what is happening.

There's the worrisome question of what happened to Matt, and it's being asked over and over, but the persistence is far from recognition; it's replaced by reinforced fear and worry. And all Mello can really think to ask is: "What kind of Fat Camp is this?"

And the counselor provides an answer. "The kind where the goal is to collect fat, among other things."

Near's eyes are wide behind the safety of his camera. He's awestruck, it seems.

Mello pulls his knees to his chest and shakes his head. "Explain."

And again, the counselor does. "Everyone is weighed regularly. They have to collect a fat _equal to -or greater than_ - their own body weight each day. The less you weigh, the less you need to collect."

"What if no one collects organs and stuff?" Mello asks, trying to shake the panic that has his spine chilled and head spinning.

Once more, an answer is offered. "Did you see those skulls painted on the Wammy's sign out front?"

A nod.

"One skull is added for every person that doesn't play the game. That person, marked by a skull, suffers a brutal decapitation, and all the body parts are auctioned off. Some pay with food or supplies, others with lungs or fatty tissue."

-The name of the game is _Weight_.

Weight loss, weight gain.

It all makes so much sense to the crazed campers that reside in this wasteland.

Listening closely, more cries and screams are heard, and it's obvious when dead weight is removed from a living person.

The more someone weighs, the more human flesh, and fat, and organs, and innards they need to fill the quota.

The more someone weighs, the more valuable they are to the other campers.

It's disgusting and vile.

The newest two campers are left alone when the counselor leaves, and they agree to search for Matt, using the kerosene lantern for light. But of course, Near's suitcase is left in the room when they exit; there is no need to lug around such a bulky thing.

They yell for Matt. They look in every knook and cranny, fearing the worst for their sickly peer, though Near doesn't appear to feel much of anything, and Mello tries so hard to hide his emotions.

Because there is more screaming to be heard, and the redhead is nowhere in sight.

...

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**/WELCOME TO A NEW KIND OF FAT CAMP. -review?/**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **Here ya go.

...

* * *

The darkness is captivating, like its own version of suspended animation.

A blonde teen flexes the fingers on his left hand while his right hand clutches the handle of a lantern; kerosene fuels the flame that is burning the internal wick. Beside this blonde is a film artist in the making, and he's so clever -he likes to think.

Shadows dance with every motion, but that is of little consequence once yet another scream is heard -this one is so much louder than the ones that came prior and, against their better judgment, the unofficial duo attempt to trace the sound.

"That sounded like Matt," the blonde whispers loudly.

The pale teen says nothing, simply checking the battery life on his precious video camera; he reluctantly powers it down, saving it for later use.

-Those boys, Mello and Near, they find themselves a door and quickly open it. The door leads outside where the sun has risen high. It's hard to say if it's the same day or not.

Vertigo is an adventure all its own.

The brightness assaults their vision but the sounds of scampering feet and a choked sob catch their attention.

Mello drops the lantern carelessly as he spots a familiar mop of red. "Matt!" he calls in a sudden burst of excitement.

Near stays back, observing from a distance as a small group of antagonists flee the scene. "Mello," he warns in a soft tone. "Mello, Matt is...-" He doesn't finish his sentence. He wonders if he should film the small reunion but makes no effort to do so.

Mello is at Matt's side so quickly, hugging the redhead that gasps and shrieks in terror. "Matt," he hushes in what he hopes is a soothing manner. "Matt, we're going to figure this out, and then we're all going home. Safe. I promise."

But Matt doesn't respond with vocals; instead, he presses his palms between himself and the blonde and tries to put distance between them.

Frowning, Mello allows this, backing up and withdrawing his arms, only to understand the reason for Matt's panic... and the unspoken words Near almost wanted him to hear.

_Matt is... not wearing goggles. And... -_Another unfinished sentence.

Poor Matt. Sick Matt. With his shaggy red hair and hidden eyes. With his trembling hands and determination to be an athlete. Matt... with his whole life ahead of him and his pills left behind.

Matt lacked his odd eye apparel.

His swimming goggles are gone.

No more smoked lenses.

In place of them - where two wide eyes are meant to be - one eye is squinted shut and the other... an empty socket, weeping bloody trails. So hollow and dark and disgusting. A perfectly round tunnel that that is not meant to be revealed.

"Matt," Mello breathes, wanting to help but not knowing how. His face lacks the smile of a politician, and it's his own turn to tremble.

"I can't see," Matt finally manages to say. His unviolated eye refuses to open.

And Near says: "I wonder... how much an eye weighs. Surely, no more than an ounce or two." He states this, curious rather than frightened, but no one seems to hear. Then, he finally walks toward his peers, head cocked to the side and eyes wide with wonder. With a shake of his head, apathy is in place and he fingers his camera in an almost contradictive gesture. "Scale," is all he says.

Mello gives him a hard glare, fighting the urge to snarl.

"I wanna go home," Matt says, placing a hand on Mello's shoulder and gripping tight as he wills himself to calm down.

"Scale," Near says again before explaining: "none of us has been weighed yet. I don't know about you, but I'd like to know what I'm expected to collect."

Had Matt not been in shock, he might have a query or two.

Thankfully, Mello is coherent. "No. No quotas. No fat or organ collecting. We're going home, and Matt's going to be alright." He sounds so brave and sincere, but his eyes betray his voice and body language. A new breed of Cowardly Lion. He's frightened, and he wants to go home just as much as the redhead.

These three teens are still children. They just wanted to go to camp. They expected the mundane, so how could they have been prepared for such a twisted game?

-Another teen shows up just then. This one is female. Her hair is mostly gone; only a handful of strands remain on her scarred head. Her fingers are all stumps where painted tips might have been. Her cheeks are red with blood in place of war paint, and her jaw is set. Her lips are a firm line, straight as a ruler, save for the scar that creases her right dimple.

This girl, she says her name is Linda.

The boys introduce themselves, or, rather... Mello handles the introduction.

"What supplies have ya got?" Linda asks, pointing to Near's camera, then to Mello's messenger bag.

Near steps back, refusing to share. He's so selfish, but it's to be expected.

In turn, Mello mutters: "Books. Pens. Hairbrush."

Matt says nothing. By now, he's clutching Mello like a lifeline.

Then Linda asks a terrifying question: "How much do you weigh?"

Taking a closer look, it's plain to see that she's been at this game for a while. Her clothes are in tatters; one ear is gone and her breasts are uneven, suggesting a gruesome harvest on her living form.

When no answer is given, Linda states: "Hair, teeth, and fingernails weigh next to nothing, but every little bit helps."

"Why is this even happening?" Mello asks, exasperated.

And Linda shrugs. "I don't ask, and I never get an answer. The good thing about that is... I'm never disappointed for asking and not recieving."

"Weirdo," Mello accuses.

But Linda doesn't care.

And Near turns his camera back on; the little red light indicates usage.

And Matt cautiously works up the courage to release the blonde and reach a surprisingly sturdy hand to his weeping wound. "What's going on?" he asks. "Tell me that much." The moment a finger finds itself in the vacant socket, it retracts.

And Linda answers: "Weight. We all have it. And until it's all gone, Fat Camp will continue to exist."

Nobody responds to this, but each take on a new expression to mirror an inner turmoil.

Mello wishes he'd eaten less chocolate in the past. The cocoa-infested treat had always been a reward for successs, and he'd spent his whole life striving to be the best. So, his wish was bittersweet. A figurative sort of dark chocolate.

Matt wishes he could've cared less about his father's standards. His father, after all, had pushed him to be an athlete, against all odds, and he wanted nothing more than to gain his father's approval. Ultimately, his wish was little more than the full realization of just how much he'd neglected his own desires. He wanted to be a video game tester.

And Near? He didn't wish for anything. The man in the lab coat - the one that had bid him a farewell and handed him his suitcase - that man was no relative of his. He had no family. He didn't want friends. He was a homeschooled hermit with a fancy camera, and he was alright with that. And, stranded at Wammy's, he can't complain. It's just another sight for him to catch on film. A movie without a script... Then again, if he really bothered to think about it, perhaps he might wish for a longer lasting battery.

These three boys are so different.

One is smart, but the politician in him has an ounce of humanity.

Another is a sickly people-pleaser, but if given the chance, he could be downright selfish.

The last is simply alone; he's up for anything because he loves nothing.

So different, but their ages are so similar.

Then there's the Camp Counselor, but he's gone. Where? Anywhere. Everywhere. Searching for another organ to steal. A slab of flesh to peel. A quota to fill.

And one cannot forget Linda, the little girl whose teeth were yanked, hair plucked, and fingertips chopped... all in favor of lessening her weight -lessening her quota. She kills the bare minimum, but she is not to be trusted.

No one can be trusted until the _weight _is truly over, but for the sake of unbidden necessity, three boys are now plus one girl, and she says: "follow me to the scales."

And they follow.

Near is close behind, camera in hand.

Mello is next, forgetting the long lost kerosene lantern and grabbing Matt's hand to guide him along.

And Matt is stumbling after, one eye closed... the other eye missing.

Their thoughts are all different, but they dare not speak their minds as they trek a dirt path through an ominous forest.

A scale awaits.

Their futures are bleak.

Another cry echoes in the distance.

And Linda whispers "Have you ever heard the expression: 'Spirit of the Stairwell'?" Not waiting for a response, she continues. "It's when you realize something a little too late. Like, when you're arguing and run out of things to say, but later come up with a clever insult or something that would leave your previous opponent speechless. Or like-"

Near interruptes; he's not a gentleman; there is no politeness to what he says. "You want to use us to fill your quota. That's why you're leading us to the scale." But the moment those words leave the mouth of the pale adolescent, Linda falls down, and her head rolls away from her shoulders. Blood spurts from an artery and the innards of her neck are exposed.

It's all so fast but caught on film.

Instant replay, anyone?

A beheading fit for a queen. And nobody even saw it coming.

...

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**/... Feedback? Please, and thank you./**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **Nothing too bad happens in this chapter; it's a filler for what I have in store. Read and Reveiw. Please and Thankyou.

...

* * *

The murderer is noticed before the weapon; he stands tall even when slouched. His hair is splayed like ebonic flames, flowing from an ashen gray face that might have once been a normal shade of pale. -He resembles the Camp Counselor, but his eyes are all wrong. In place of demonic red irises around shrunken pupils, he has soulless black wormholes that sit just a little too far apart on his gaunt face.

Crazy as it is, this guy appears to have an ounce of sanity, then again... maybe not. Because _weight_ isn't the only thing that is being lost at Fat Camp. The blood that paints the environment is a small testament to that.

With a frown of discontent marring his already grotesque features, this odd man kneels down and-

And the hideous scalp of Linda, nearly hairless, it rests in the grass among a pile of twigs. As innocent as a beach ball.

_Feel free to pick it up. Play with it, if you wish. Toss it to a partner. Go ahead. It's all in good fun until someone loses an eye..._

-and this man, Linda's assailant, he picks her head up and tucks it under his arm like sports equipment. A ball. A bat. A glove.

_Let's play a game. The winner keeps his life; the loser offers a spleen._

There's an alarming silence looming when the killer notices the small audience comprised of a conflicted blonde, a curious albino, and a one-eyed redhead. He smiles at them, almost apologetically before saying: "I just need the head. " And with that, he turns away.

But his departure isn't complete.

Near approaches, stepping over Linda's corpse as he lessens the distance.

Near's still not wearing shoes, only socks. Socks that were once white -now so filthy that the puddle of blood cannot tarnish them further.

Near approaches that man and says, for a third time: "Scales?"

The odd man stops in his tracks, blood dripping from Linda's head as he cradles it between his arm and ribs. "Scales," he responds, denying eye contact and turning away again.

But Near's not finished; he's determined. His camera is still rolling, collecting images and storing things that would be rated R had they been in the hands of the cinema. "You're L, aren't you?" He asks this question, seemingly without warrant, but there's a smug gleam in his eyes, suggesting that he knows something he shouldn't.

No answer is given.

He doesn't ask again.

Instead, Near, with his white hair, paler than pale skin, white clothes, and tarnished socks – he powers down his camera and turns his attention to his peers -the blonde and the redhead. And Near smiles that small, awkward smile. "Scales."

Scowling, Mello grits his teeth, puffing out his chest and trying to look intimidating. "No," he huffs, practically shaking with repressed emotions. "No, no, no. No scales. As I said, we're getting Matt out of here before _he_, or _me_, or _you_, or any of us lose our lives or our sanity." And he sounds so sure. He has the voice of a politician once again. He could almost be president.

But Near doesn't care for his lies or half-truths. Such words in his ears are so flexible and easily paraphrased.

Still, Matt is stepping to the side, needing more personal space as he finally forces his good eye open. He's appauled at what he sees: Linda's headless body, Near's psychopathic smile, and Mello's own fear. It all looks so wrong and out of place.

He longs for Basketball Camp; he mentally conjures up the feeling of tiresome muscles as he might race from one end of the court to the other. Dribble, dribble, dribble, pass. A teammate bounces it to someone else and then a shot is made for the hoop.

But Matt's not on a court. There is no crowd to cheer him along. He's not tired from playing sports, and he's not watching with baited breath to see if a winning score is being made.

Instead, this redhead, he's collecting his thoughts and adjusting to having only half the sight he used to. And he's more afraid of Mello's lack of confidence than he is of his own injury. And... that horrid look on Near's face isn't making anything easier.

But again, Mello assures: "We're going to go home. No one's stopping us from leaving. The fence is only so high, and there's a gate. We'll get out and just go. We'll keep going until we find a phone. And then we call home." As he says this, even he almost believes himself. The lies are flowing easier, and he's a little more presumptuous. He offers a smile in the redhead's direction and says: "Let's go."

Without further exchange of dialogue, they're the Three Musketeers. All for One, and One for All. They're walking in synch. No one so much as breathes out of turn.

Safety in numbers.

The forest is alive with battle cries and the dirt path seems to have vanished.

They're lost. Linda's corpse is far behind, as is the cabin they were meant to stay in.

Logic dictates that if they pick a single direction and continue onward, they're bound to run into something or someone useful.

They opt for the simplicity and make a beeline for... _anywhere_, hoping that the correct destination will be on the cusp of discovery before they're found by savage campers.

Things go well for a while, but Matt's health is poor. He slows them down. His athsma kicks in and he's breathless, doubled over with one hand perched on his knee and the other on his chest; he can't breath. He can hardly see. And if he weren't so focused on his empty stomach, he might worry about oncoming infections.

But Mello is at his side, full fo bravado and sweat-soaked hair; he smells like a pair of gym socks, but the redhead doesn't have the heart to vocalize this.

And Near... he just wants to play with his camera. And he's so interested in the 'scales.' He's mentioned it at least a dozen times by now, but he never offers a reason for this.

-It is when they take a break, for the umpteenth time, that the sickly redhead collapses, chest heaving and body curling in on itself. His face is flushed and he's a mess of twitches and tremors.

The blonde tries to encourage him to get up, but this is a fruitless endeavor. His own stomach wails and gurgles in starvation, and he momentarily considers eating that freak of nature called Near. Fortunately, that thought passes quickly and he seats himself next to Matt; he's tired and longs for luxury.

Meanwhile, Near seems unaffected by their migration. There is not a single bead of sweat, no sign of fatigue. Aside from his clothes collecting filth, he's unmarred. Immaculate. A snowflake on a black cotton glove. And he says: "I weigh 88 pounds. I could collect that, if need be. You two easily weigh over 100 pounds; if I had to guess, I'd say 110 or 115."

No one responds to this, of course, but the fact that the teen voices such a thought is reason enough to be wary. An abortion bred of unprotected trust. Teenage waste in a back alley dumpster. A fucking fetus in a garbage bag.

It's sickening.

-They don't rest for long; such a feat would be impossible with the way the sun makes it's way westward, clocking them like a stopwatch, foretelling the birth of night. Gypsy magic without the crystals and dollar store fuckery.

This time, Matt is the one to suggest the move. He beckons the blonde and suggests that they find help or, at the very least, find a place to camp out for the night.

Surprisingly, Near is more enthused than Mello. He even offers to fetch firewood.

And Mello tries not to complain about his aching stomach; he's so hungry. And as he watches the albino scamper off to grab a fallen tree limb, he once again considers cannibalism. He goes as far as to lean close to Matt and whisper: "I hate him. I wanna eat him. Bet he tastes like-" He's speaking, heading toward an awkward attempt at persuasion when he's interrupted.

"You bet he tastes like chicken," Matt supplies, good eye closed and exhausted body leaning heavily against an enormous sandstone. He's quiet, breathing deeply as he debates the issue internally. Then, after another minute or two, he says: "Alright. But if we do this, we give him a fighting chance. Okay?"

"Of course."

With that, an agreement was made, but before they could formulate a plan of attack, a voice reaches their ears, and it's a dreadfully familiar voice.

"Hungry?" the voice asks.

The boys don't even have to look to know who it is -or, at least, Mello doesn't need to look, and Matt doesn't bother opening his good eye to get a glimpse.

Still, Mello composes himself, straightening his posture and offering a hacked version of his politically correct smile. "Hey, Beyond." He taps his comrade's shoulder to make sure he's alert. "Matt, this is Beyond Birthday, our Camp Counselor."

Matt doesn't say anything; his lethargy has overcome his fear and desire for food; he's fallen asleep.

Beyond doesn't show any sign of noticing the sleeping camper at all. Instead, he chuckles and declares: "My quota is more than filled. For a fee, I might offer you supplies. Food. A clean bandage for the wounded one," he nods toward Matt's unconscious form.

And Mello's eager to accept the offer. "What can I pay with? Money?"

The Camp Counselor looks thoughtful for a moment, considering, and he answers with: "Shoes. Give me your shoes. And your shirt. And... what's in your bag?" Like a scavenger, he dives for Mello's suede messenger bag which, by now, is dirty and nearly unrecognizable. He attacks it with his fingertips, shoving his face deep into the shallow bag before pulling back with a lone pen between his teeth. Like a puppy with a chew toy. "And this," he adds, voice muffled around the object.

Nodding, the blonde starts to remove his shoes and shirt, keeping his bag and its remaining contents close by. "Alright, now what can you offer us? I'm dying here."

"Intestines, they weigh less than you think. Harvested and dried out, they resemble jerky. I can offer some of that, and of course, I'll help you fill your quotas by nightfall."

"...what if we don't 'collect' by nightfall?" Mello asks, voice small and out of character. He feels like a child, apprehensive. Like there's a monster under his bed and he's afraid to get up to pee at night.

_Mommy, I've had an accident._

But Beyond is there, and he laughs, and he has all the answers -the world in his hands, protestants and ghouls dancing on his palms and building bridges between his fingers. "No collecting results in public decapitation. This may not be the world you're used to, but even Fat Camp has rules."

"And who enforces these rules?" Mello just had to ask; he really wanted to know. But Mello doesn't like what he hears...

"I do. And L does. And Linda did. And Halle does. And... -Everyone here helps to enforce the rules."

"But why?"

"I don't know. No one knows. But, before Fat Camp, none of us had anything to live for. Nothing to be proud of. Nothing to defend. Now, we live every day like it's our last. We take nothing for granted. And... when our quotas are reached, we celebrate. There's a festival. And it all begins... with a scale."

...

* * *

**/Next chapter will feature some good gore and explanation. Plus, I'd like to add some backstory. At least, that's the goal. -Review./**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **What's that? You're screaming in anticipation and not because you're having your innards harvested at Fat Camp? Then what are you waiting for? -GET TO IT! Read and Reveiw. Please and Thankyou.

**SORRY. NO GORE IN THIS CHAPTER. STILL... happy readin'.**

…

* * *

"_To bed, to bed," said Sleepy Head.  
_"_Tary a while," said Slow.  
_"_Put on the pan," said Greedy Anne,  
_"_We'll sup before we go."_

A silly little rhyme, the kind children learn by heart -along with Wee Willy Winky, and things of the like. Twinkle Twinkle and Baa Baa Black Sheep. Little Boy Blue and Hey Diddle Diddle. Little Miss Muffet and so on. These are things children know. These are things adults teach them. These are things that are passed from generation to generation.

But whacky rhymes and lib songs have no place in Fat Camp.

Instead of singing or playing or making jokes, children and teens and young adults -they're shanking one another with a gardening trowel, dueling to the death with whatever they can get their hands on... lest they find expiration to be their own fate: a rusty pipe to the head; skin and muscle and fat extracted by crudely fashioned scalpels.

A scene too vile for words.

Pale skin, wrist-deep in an open chest cavity. Intestines wrapped around fingers and hearts in hands.

Worse than anything seen on the SyFy channel.

-This is how a quota is met.

If a camper weighs a hundred pounds, they are expected to offer a minimum of one hundred pounds to the scales.

As Linda once said -before she lost her head -'every little bit helps.'

Some go mad and start a killing spree. Others remove their own appendages to lessen their quotas. Either way, sanity is shed faster than weight.

The scales are located in the middle of the woods, but nobody ever truly gets lost. There's a path leading right to it. A dirt path.

Beyond Birthday points it out, along with all the landmarks that he knows.

_The tree with the knot in it that resembles a kidney. _

_The rock shaped like Rhode Island, kinda. _

_The skeleton that, for some reason, has been there for as long as anyone can remember._

These are things to look for if you get lost. And if you cannot find them, a fire is lit near the scales -a beacon for those who know better than to miss the celebration that follows collection.

But that is not all Beyond Birthday is showing three particular boys.

-"This... is Halle. Halle Lidner. She weighs about 115 pounds and, to murder her would make the quota for one of you," the Camp Counselor says, voice like silk and eyes wide with passion. His hands are around the throat of a blonde woman.

The woman is struggling while three young teens watch.

"I don't wanna kill her," Mello mutters, averting his gaze.

"Then cut off her hand," Beyond instructs. "Taking a piece at a time takes longer and damages a greater number of people than simply taking a life."

And Near turns on his camera. He's morbidly fixated; his lips part to show a strange sort of smile.

Matt doesn't react at all; he's still fatigued, barely conscious and almost completely unaware of everything except the hand in his. Mello's hand.

And it is with a faint reluctance that Beyond releases the woman's throat and shoves her to the ground, placing one foot on her back to prevent her escape. "What will it be?" He makes an ambiguous gesture toward the three boys. "One of you have to do it. Who will it be? What will be done? A failure to meet your quota results in death."

Silence seems to be the popular answer to his multiple inquiries, but Near soon sets his camera aside and declares: "I want to do it."

Mello looks at the albino with unabashed horror, but that look quickly turns to one of disgust. "You can't just _kill_ someone; it's inhumane!"

"-says the person who wanted to eat Near," Matt murmurs groggily, one eye closed as he leans away from his blonde companion and against a barren tree.

"That's different," Mello states. "I'm hungry, and Whitey over here freaks me out. He's all quiet with his little toy camera, and then he randomly spouts shit that makes him sound like a serial killer. He deserves to be eaten."

And Beyond chuckles. "You three are a prime example of why Wammy campers never travel in groups for long."

Near says nothing; instead, he reaches over to trace the surface of his camera. It may sound strange, but he feels exposed when he's not behind it, but he'd never voice that. No, he'd much rather sit back and watch life like one big film.

Sometimes, his move is a horror movie.

And it's real. As real as cotton candy but not quite as sweet.

Near's still fingering that camera, waiting for an excuse to use it. To film the world as he sees it. To possibly see it as a spectator rather than an actor. Because he's not an actor. He's an incarnation of terrorism.

Set the filter to Binary so everything turns black and white.

Alpha one. Camera two. Adjust the lighting, please.

This is what goes through the albino's head. He doesn't think about money, food, friends, or family. He doesn't think about strange and unwarranted outbreak of smallpox that attacked his family but left him unharmed. He doesn't think about how he might have felt when they were quarantined and he was sent away.

He thinks about his camera. That camera is his life.

Through the eye of his camera, he can see objectively.

If he records something, he can watch it later. If he misses it, how will he know it even happened?

The mind is too fickle to remember everything, even for a budding young genius.

Genius? No, he's a film maker. An artist.

And he grabs that camera, holds it up to his face and instructs: "Okay, Mello -you do it. _Action_." When no one makes a move to do anything, he adds: "The battery is low. Hurry up. I want to reference this later."

But Mello doesn't move to do anything in front of the camera; he's not an actor either, and he doesn't like taking orders. He's a rebel. He's running a hand through his hair and trying to think of ways to get out.

He's trapped.

Then again, he's always trapped. He's trapped in this situation. He's trapped at Wammy's. Just like he was trapped in a loop of academics and awards with no appreciation.

As a child, he was trapped between the homes of his divorced parents, both of which doted on him like he was the baby fuckin' Jesus... until he actually needed something. Then he was a burden, a plague, and the anti-Christ.

Growing up practically alone, he found himself trapped inside his heart and head, unable to share the secrets his mother taught him. When she held him under the water until he couldn't breathe, he thought for sure he'd die, but he didn't.

His mother was depressed, and she took advantage of him, hurting him in ways she felt she might be hurting.

His father could never know about the scars and cuts and bruises -the time he was pushed down the stairs. All the times he was forced to ingest small bits of arsenic -he could be immune by now.

And he never complained.

Because time with his father wasn't any more satisfying.

Dad wasn't there, and when he was, he was telling Mello to study. Become smart. It's the way of the politician.

Yeah, Mello's dad, he was a big shot in Congress or something. Always busy, but never too busy to tell his kid to get lost or to study.

And Mello took the incentive to impress him.

"_Do I lie as good as you do, dad? Am I a cold bastard too? Is this why mom left you? She's in rehab, y'know. Fuck, she should be in a mental ward. Did you know that she used to beat me? Touch me? And tell me it was your fault? Yeah. Bastards."_

Mello was bitter. He's been through a lot over the years, but he hides it so well. Such high marks in school. Such a politically correct smile. His mother and father are pillars of the community.

Father donated a new library. Mother attends every social event. And Mello places another ribbon on the shelf for his achievements.

This is Mello's life.

And now, he's at Fat Camp. With a film maker and a redhead.

And that redhead? He's trapped too, but he doesn't care as much as he should. He's too focused on how tired he is. How sick he is. How much he wants to be an athlete.

His mom and dad loved him. They never died or got divorced, so he decided that life was good. Mother wanted him to be happy, so she spent every penny on furthering his education in the field of electronics, but father just wanted him to be a meat head. An athlete.

"_Just try the damn steroids. You take so many fuckin' pills, your mother won't even notice."_

And the redhead did take steroids, but they did not help him gain any muscle mass, no matter how much exercise he pushed himself into. No matter how many sports he tried out for -he never made a team. Not soccer, baseball, or football.

He's trying out for basketball.

His father is so proud.

He swallows another pill. He doesn't know what it is. He just knows that he's supposed to take it every day. Some pills make him sick. Others make him better. He's lost track of what helps and what hurts.

He just wants people to be proud of him, but with how much he wheezes, how tired he is, he can never do enough.

This is Matt, and his whole life has been just another trip to the drug store. Another dose of something he might not be able to handle. Another pat on the back and 'better luck next time' from a coach.

This redhead, Matt, he's at Wammy's, and though he's missing an eye and has the other one closed, he's able to think more clearly than ever before as the drugs gradually leave his system.

But he's tired, and he wants to go home.

So he lays down on the ground, uncaring of his environment and the company about him. And he's going to sleep.

-Beyond Birthday awaits an answer; he's getting impatient. Near's camera is rolling. Matt's asleep. And Mello takes a deep breath and finally gives in.

He approaches the blonde woman beneath the foot of his Camp Counselor. "I'll do it." He glances at the unconscious redhead for a moment before averting his gaze and locking eyes with Beyond. "Under one condition. Explain to me why this is all happening, and why we can't leave."

And Beyond looks thoughtful for a moment before nodding. He has no qualms with complying. As long as he gets what he wants in the end. "This is Fat Camp. And though it's a harsh place to be, you're happy to be here, aren't you? Away from your pitiful home lives, the secrets kept behind locked doors. You weren't happy there, and you're not entirely unhappy here. At least when you're here, you're deciding your own fate. No one else is pulling your strings -Y'see, it all began with..."

…

* * *

**/And, we'll start the next chapter with the history of Fat Camp. Then we'll get to some gore. -Review./**


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **Read on.

…

* * *

"It all began," the raven starts, face veiled in shadows from the waning light through the surrounding trees, "with a kid and a bag of candy." There's something ominous in his tone, though the content seems rather simple, if not flighty.

The nearby redhead snoozes soundly while one other camper listens intently and another cradles a camera.

"That candy, so sweet, so addictive -the kid ate the whole bag. Then he wanted more. But he hadn't more. So, he opted for theivery."

"But-!" Mello is quick to interject, brain shifting to concoct a response that any politician might have - to state that theivery is wrong, but Beyond persists before the blonde camper can adequately verbalize this.

"True, he could have bought more candy; he wasn't poor, but he was above that, or so he thought. He didn't want to objectify the situation -make nothing into something. He didn't want anyone to think he _needed_ more candy. But he _did _need it. And he got it. He stole. And when others resisted, he strangled them to death. Surprisingly, he got away with it time and time again, but he grew tired, lethargic, and fat. So fat. Three times his original weight. And he was sent to Fat Camp -a normal one, of course. But it didn't stay normal for long. Y'see, this kid, the sugar made him unstable, but the lack of sugar drove him to extremes. And, since Fat Camp denied him candy, he decided he needed to get out, fast. And his method-"

Strangely enough, it is Near who completes the explanation, saying: "his method was to take a pocket knife, make a rather deep incision, and gradually cut out his own fat to decrease his weight. But then he realized that, in order to get out, his peers also had to lose a certain amount of weight because the camp counted weight loss percentage as a whole rather than individual progression, and so he began to attack them and harvest their fat as well... At least, until he found out that muscle mass weighed more than fat."

The Camp Counselor, as well as Near's blonde peer, look at the albino with questioning eyes, both wondering about the knowledge he possesses.

"And you know this, how?" Mello asks, raising a brow and repressing disgust.

Near shrugs, closing his eyes and smiling a small, perverse smile. "Let's save that little chat for later. For now, Mello, I believe you promised to be the one to harvest Halle after the explanation. Well, the explanation was provided, now get to it."

With a growl, Mello loses his nerve and refuses. He clenches his hands into fists and states that he doesn't want to hurt anyone.

But Beyond counters his refusal with a simple statement: "If Halle goes unharmed, I'll let her use any one of you three to help her hit her quota. Time is running out; my patience is thin." The words are taunting and provocative, daring. "Listen, kid. Nobody ever wants to do this when they first get here, but... once they do, a whole new world opens up to them. Think of all the riches and glory out there in the free world; and, more importantly, think of how little of it is yours. Here, at Fat Camp, the more flesh you have, the greater wealth you wield." After saying this, he wriggles his bony fingers, crusted with blood, and he chuckles.

Mello feels as if his world is falling from its axis and imploding. An intense pressure is everywhere between his head and stomach. Closing his eyes, he involuntarily doubles over and retches stomach acids. He feels sick. But like any other politician, he calms his nerves and straightens his posture.

He's a machine, a robot. Any feeling he has is stored away for safe keeping as he closes the distance between himself and the woman captive beneath the raven's foot.

"Kick her, hit her. Stab her." Beyond instructs. "Make sure she stops breathing. Smell the copper of her blood and the stench of her bowels as they release. -A three year old's first trip to Disney Land will be forgotten, but this will stay with you forever. Skin cells under your fingernails. Blood on your face and unnamed fluids sloshing around your feet."

A small sound of excitement escapes Near as he starts his camera; the little red light is on.

And Matt stirs awake just in time to see his blonde peer crouching down while Beyond hands him the previously confiscated pen.

"Just do it. It's going to hurt no matter how you do it because you're inexperienced. You don't know the painless way to snap a neck. It's going to be messy." Either Beyond or Near says this. It's hard to tell since Mello's surroundings are blurring together.

He uncaps the pen -it's black. He planned on taking notes and filling in bubbles on multiple-choice quizzes. He planned on inking small doodles on the backs of his papers and maybe passing his number to a cute girl nearby. -Instead of doing any of that at Math Camp, he takes a deep breath, and with closed eyes, he blindly stabs, forcing the pointed end of the pen through the skin.

Halle screams and flails, but the raven holds her in place and Mello can't hear anything. Opening his blue eyes, he can see that the pen, while penetrating, does almost no damage; it's only in half an inch or so, and the bloodflow is minimal.

Suddenly, the act itself doesn't seem so bad. No more bloody than getting a scrape on the knee.

There's a soft but obnoxious ringing in his ears but not much else. He can almost hear his own breathing, his heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he chooses to ignore it. Instead, he adjusts his hold on the pen, withdrawing it with a forceful yank, and stabs again, keeping his eyes open this time. Again and again, he buries the utensil deep into the struggling woman, making small round holes that expel blood at different rates.

"It's not working," Mello murmurs, anxiety setting in again. He wills the feeling away and releases the pen -it's in her throat, possibly penetrating the trachea. Shaky fingers wrap around a pale but dirty throat. A silent prayer is mouthed but not spoken and Mello tightens his hold. The blood between his skin and Halle's serves as a sort of lubricant and makes it difficult, but he persists.

And Halle eventually stops moving.

The Camp Counselor pats Mello on the back.

Near's smiling, camera turning off.

And Matt's eye is open to the murder, but he doesn't feel sick. He just looks resigned, accepting. He bows his head and whispers "good job."

But Mello still can't hear. His eyes widen and he looks around fantically, so fast that everything seems to spin, but he still can't hear. Fuzzy faces and mute voices, everything blurry. There's madness setting in and his bloody fingers are twitching like the legs of a dead spider.

Somewhere, far in the back of his mind, he wonders what his father would think.

It's so vulgar.

The volume is turned down and his vision goes black.

-By the time Mello becomes coherent, he and the others are at the scale. It's not at all like he imagined. When one thinks 'scale,' they think of those taunting little things in the bathroom that tell you how much weight you need to lose, how fat and disgusting you are, and how you'll never be a model; one thinks of the scale at a doctor's office -you know the one; it's got those little movey-thingies.

But this scale is just a plank of wood resting atop a large rock. The boulder serves as a fulcrum and it's more of a see-saw than anything else.

Mello watches with renewed vigor as the Camp Counselor whispers something to Matt and tells him to get moving.

Matt, small and weak and sickly -he needs his medication. But he doesn't complain, nor does he fuss or ask anything of anyone. He's so quiet as he drags a body toward the scales.

Surprisingly, it's not Halle's body, and Mello has to search his memory bank to make sense of things, but all he recieves are small flashes of memory: the lightbulb effect. A broken movie projector.

Those flashes, thoughts of Beyond's verbal and crazed encouragement and the redhead's hands closing around someone's throat -but he's much too weak to apply enough pressure. So, he steps on and crushes someone's windpipe. It's faster and a lot less messy than Mello's own murder -but this is how the Camp Counselor helps the redhead make his quota.

And as Matt struggles to drag the heavy body, another ravenette approaches and grabs hold. "I'll help," he says simply.

And Matt is grateful. "You're L, right?"

And L smiles.

-Now, L, he's a special and unique individual. So much like his doppelganger but so different too. L's much thinner, skin like latex over his frail bones, eyes sunken in and waist as thin as a DVD. L's eyes are soulless and black, and his face is so thin that his ears look out of place like a cartoon monkey. That is, if cartoon monkeys had sickly grey skin, rotten teeth, and more scars than clear flesh.

But L has a reason for this; he's just not willing to tell anyone yet. Though, one can imagine a past as dark as the night sky that just keeps getting darker as the future grows nearer, and as he dwells in the present, he holds onto nothing but 43 pounds of bone and flesh and organ.

-The two of them, Matt and L, they work to place the body of a dark-skinned cadaver on one end of the plank, then another camper holds the wooden beam steady while the redhead climbs onto the other end. Matt and the corpse balance each other and campers cheer excitedly.

As Matt stands there, stock still, one eye open to his peers and ears blaring with the cheer of the crowd, he wonders if this is what it feels like to be good at sports, to be good in his father's eyes. Their praise makes everything almost seem worthwhile. A smile lights his face and he basks for a moment. Because he's never really been complimented; he's never been cheered for; no one's ever looked at him with awe or admiration, and he soaks it up like a greedy little whore-sponge.

And when instructed, he hops down from the plank and the body bombs down like a limp and lifeless mannequin.

For a moment, it's raining death. Death lands with a single thud. Then, the body is dragged away by an anomymous camper for proper harvesting, and Matt is rewarded a shiny rock.

It's primitive and lame, but Matt cherishes that rock like a polished trophy as he makes his way back to his own group. He stands beside Mello, rock in hand, and he smiles. "You alright?" he asks the blonde, but he's euphoric. Blood on his cheeks and one socket devoid an eyeball, and he's smiling like he just won a gold fuckin' medal. For an instant, he's happy.

Then Mello shrugs and asks: "Who was that? Who did you kill? Doesn't it bother you to lay a life to rest without God's consent?"

Matt says: "I didn't know him, so I guess it doesn't bother me. And... Mello, I stopped believing in God a long time ago." As those words leave his mouth, he clutches that rock a bit tighter and turns his attention to other parts of the celebration. The bright swell of lanterns, the curious buffet, and the calm casualty of murderous teens all at a truce of sorts.

Mello feels sick.

Matt is elated. "Take your corpse up to the scales, Mello. You'll see. On top of the scale, you're king. You're looking down on everyone else, and they love you." He seems so happy.

Mello's still sick. Even as he watches Near struggle to drag a body of his own -at least, until L decides to help- up to the scale to repeat the ritual. It's so hard because he refuses to let go of his camera, still.

That camera is his life. But he'll never tell why. Nobody needs to know his own dirty secret -a secret dirtier than the blackened socks on his feet.

-Near comes back from the balancing act, and he has a small, satisfied smile in place. "Your turn, Mello."

But Mello doesn't want to do it. So he doesn't. And the attention of over a hundred bloody campers is on him, all either expectant or angry, and all subconsciously sizing him up, counting the fat cells around his waist and the muscle mass on his arms and legs.

"Do it," Beyond says. "You killed her, it's your right. We all did it; we've all got skeletons in our closets, and now you do too."

"I just wanted us all to get home safely," he whispers, but no one heeds his plea.

"Mello," the redhead cuts in quickly, "we all wanted to go home, but this is an opportunity that only comes once in a lifetime."

"ONLY BECAUSE YOU'LL DIE HERE!" Mello shouts angrily, tears spilling and body trembling. "I KILLED someone, okay? I'm not happy with it; I didn't want to do it. And YOU, you're missing an eye, for fuck's sake! There's no way you have the balls to be okay and simply accept that!" And he's panting and crying; he's a wreck; he wants to go home -he's desperate.

Near sighs loudly. "Mello, stop embarassing us, please. People are staring."

And everyone is staring. More than a hundred people, all slightly varying in age and degrees of filth and sin.

Then L walks over, takes Mello's hand, mutters a quick "I'll talk to him," and drags him off.

Mello can't be sure why he goes so willingly with a murderer, but isn't he himself one as well? So much confliction.

-When they come to a halt, L looks at him seriously and says: "So, you understand why we do this?"

Mello wipes wet eyes with the back of his dirty hand. "Because of the candy-addicted fat kids, right?"

And L shakes his head. "The story Beyond tells is not true."

"...I just wanna go home."

"We all wanna go home. We're not in this game because we want to be. We're in it because we'll die if we stop."

"But... if everyone wants to stop, why can't they stop?"

"Because they've gone mad. -Y'see, this place really was once a Fat Camp, but the original campers were left here so long that their parents forgot about them, and the staff got sick, and the food ran out, and the kids became mentally unstable; they even adapted to cannibalism. But it's more than that. Because that didn't stop kids from being blindly dropped off. And with the increase in poplulation, they made rules, games, and a system all their own. It might seem unjust, but believe it or not, everyone has their own reasons for complying. -Oh, sure, you can try to hide away or even leave, but the madness will follow you."

"... I still don't see why I can't go home. I could get help, and-"

"And then what?"

"I don't know." At this point, Mello looks defeated.

L smiles in what he thinks is a reassuring manner. "I was like you once. I was normal. I wanted to help people. But you will have to decide if your life is worth more than the person next to you. -If, at any moment, they can kill you, won't you kill them first? Or, at the very least, cut off their hands so that they can't hold a weapon..."

"I don't wanna hurt anyone."

L's still smiling as he slips an arm around the blonde. "Just try playing by the rules for a week. And if you still feel the same, I'll help you out."

Mello gives a slow nod and tries to calm himself. "... Alright."

There's a strained silence that follows, and it gradually becomes comfortable. For a moment, Mello feels at peace. -At least, he does until L speaks up once more, saying: "I believe you're standing in a pile of intestines. Pick them up and let's go back. We'll get you something to eat and show you the easiest way not to be drugged and disemboweled during the night hours."

…

* * *

**/Next chapter, we'll focus on Matt and then Near; then we'll learn a bit about L and B. So, for those who are interested on what's goin' through their heads, stay tuned. -Review/**


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **This is just a filler. Something to think about. Full chapter will be up by Monday.

* * *

…

Do me a favor. Put yourself on a bus bound for anywhere you might go annually.

Where are you going? Why are you going there?

And if you are told to bring only one bag, what would you bring?

Now, imagine that for some unspoken reason, you are dropped off at a desolate camp ground, what do you do?

You can't call home, and nobody knows where you are. And what's more, the campers are killing one another for reasons you can't fathom.

What do you do?

In a situation where your own mass is sought after -and if you don't attack those around you, your own life could be at stake - is your life more important than someone else's?

Answer those questions with honesty, put yourself in the place of a hungry, dirty child at a Fat Camp called Wammy's, and maybe then you will think twice about eating another donut or slice of pizza.

But, then again, being overweight or morbidly obese is not what gets you sent to Fat Camp.

* * *

**...**

**/Sorry for the terribly short filler. More coming on Monday. *smile*/**


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **Surprise! Early update. -Now, I'm not sure what I think about this. I mean, it is probably the worst AND most fascinating chapter I've written in a while. I have mixed feelings, but I'm happy with it.

…

* * *

Darkness serves as a wonderful protector, and it's only too ironic that such a thing isn't needed during the evening festival. Still, L and Mello carry back the filthy intestines and drop them into a metal bin full of various organs; then, L excuses himself to take his own turn on the scale, placing a small mountain of severed parts on the slightly wider end of the beam before getting on the other; the pile of flesh and organs is heavier than he is, lifting him higher as the crowd whoops and hollers and drums sticks against hollowed logs.

Their primitive conquest radiates with all the intellect of a Neaderthal.

Still, the raven hops down and claims a shiny rock as a prize -but unlike Matt, he doesn't keep it. Instead, he nonchalantly hands it off to another camper who eagerly cuddles it close and runs off.

Everyone seems so set in their ways. To them, this is normal, the stench of death and decay, the cheers for bloodhshed and the consumption of flesh and dehydrated innards.

-When L rejoins the odd little group, consisting of Beyond, Mello, Near and Matt, the albino is gritting his teeth, holding the camera in one hand and smacking it with the other like a redneck might smack a tv with poor reception. After a moment, his eyes grow wet and he appears confused. Eyes wide and lips parted, he says: "Battery's dead." But nobody responds to him.

And for a moment, Near finds his grip on the camera unsteady, hands shaking. He thinks about when he was five: how he loves his mom and dad like any other little boy. Then there's an accident – Near falls head first down a flight of stairs -he might have been pushed, but he'll never tell. Point is, one fall... and he's never the same again.

His mother and father want the world for him, but he no longer wants anything to do with his family. After all, he sees them as homonids and nothing more. The blood relation means nothing to him. DNA is meant to be analyzed and passed along. An assembly line for heredity. Cosmetics of ribosomes and neatly placed proteins.

Near does not feel all warm and fuzzy when a parent offers comfort, but the day they hand him a camera and tell him to record what he sees, he finds a new sense of understanding. A new purpose in life.

And he _does_ film what he sees, but all too quickly, he tires of the mundane: mother washing dishes and father mowing the lawn, cousin Adam recovering from abuse and threatening to burn the house down -it all becomes so routine, and Near hates filming the same thing over and over; he needs excitement. So he waits for an excuse to visit Uncle Max, a wealthy man who works with biological warfare. And he finds that excuse when his parents and cousin are conveniently stricken by smallpox.

The disease spreads fast but does not touch the albino.

Near eventually lives with Uncle Max and, though he appears mostly bored, he's happy for more things to film.

But Uncle Max is far too busy with work and hasn't the time to play with a kid. In fact, Uncle Max is the father and initial abuser of newly deceased cousin Adam. And Near finds himself locked in a small room more often than not.

Yes, a small, white room full of toys... and mirrors.

Every wall is bathed in that metallic silver; he can see his reflection. -The excess reflection ruins the prospect of filming. He can't get a good shot no matter how hard he tries, what setting, what angle.

The camera gains a shelf life and the albino finds amusement in his own copycat.

He names his reflection Nate, but Nate never says anything of interest, and so Near turns to books to pass time.

He finds one labeled: "Weight, at what Cost?" It is full of snippets of autobiographies of various people who have survived a gruesome contest of weight gain and weight loss.

And just like that, the kid's obesessed; he's found a new hobby to indulge. And he turns to his uncle on the matter, and-

-And just a few months later, Near is on a bus to Fat Camp, harboring a camera and a single suitcase.

...

By now, Beyond has made true his word: properly bandaged Matt's eye and offered dried intestines with the texture of jerky."It's a good snack," he says, "but don't eat too much or your quota will increase."

Mello reluctantly tucks the foul treat into his dirty messenger bag and attempts a mouthful of something he's afraid to ask the name of. He's starving, hungry enough to devour the undercooked meat.

Near has already eaten a small portion and is once again fiddling with a broken camera. Even the lens has somehow cracked.

Meanwhile, a certain redhead is watching the dying fires of the festival and clutching the rock that had serves as his prize for the offering he provided.

Beyond casually mentions that the cabins are one of the safer places to go for the night.

And L asks, to no one in particular, if he should amputate something -perhaps a finger or toe, but he does not specify why.

Still, it matters not because no one answers.

And before long, the abundance of campers around the scale lessens as everyone files off to their own sanctities, and this small group is no different.

-They find themselves sharing a room back at the cabin, in which is luggage that belongs to none of them.

Beyond and L loot through the bags and claim fresh clothes that don't quite fit but are at least clean. They dress with no modesty, stripping themselves bare and pulling on the garments at leisure.

To this act, L says: "When you've seen as many naked bodies as we have, privacy and modesty are things that are no longer considered."

The night passes with L and Beyond cradling each other with long, lanky limbs attached to grotesquely twisted torsos; Mello sleeps off and on, fighting paranoia and anxiety; Matt slumbers soundly, sprawled out on the floor; and Near doesn't sleep at all -though, aided with the light of a lantern, he catches sight of his reflection and silently plays a game of 'Copy Cat' with a twin that only exists in the parallels of his mind.

Then at daybreak, everyone is up and out in the woods, each preparing to make their quota -at least, they are until L states: "To be honest, nobody ever really makes their quotas every day, and they're not always punished for it."

And Beyond looks a little sad, but he nods all the same. "True." And he adjusts the little badge on his shirt -the laminated one that entitles him: Camp Counselor.

And Mello's eyes bulge with anger and betrayal. "You mean, I might not have had to kill anybody?!"

And Matt says nothing.

And Near plays with the on/off switch of his inoperable camera. Perhaps he takes a moment to briefly ponder how he had a hand in releasing the smallpox virus -but that is a tale for another day, for he has many faults that have brought him small joys.

Regardless of the pale camper's thoughts, L responds to Mello's prior query with: "that's not entirely true. Look at it this way. There are many campers, and food is scarce. Naturally, cannibalism is something we've grown accustomed to. That alone is a reason for the slaying of one another. But... there's more to it than that. Are you familiar with _Dermacentor variabilis_?"

Mello gives a slow nod and opens his mouth to state the variety of facts he can miraculously call forth about the trivial subject, but he is upstaged.

Upstaged by one-eyed Matt, with his red hair, partially bandaged face, and slight wheeze with every breath. Matt speaks, and he is blunt and simple. "The common Deer Tick. Parasite to many mammals, birds, and some reptiles."

At that, the blonde feels like a kid in a play whose line was stolen by another drama queen. And this angers him, but he puts on a brave face and hides the oncoming scowl as he asks "what of the damn bug -which, might I add, is an arachnid... much like a spider or scorpion-"

Then Beyond interrupts with a snicker and "you have such an inferiority complex, Blondie. I can read you like a book. Parents split. Mother never showed you the right attention and father didn't show you any. You play the part of a good boy, but you're jealous, angry, seething. You're screaming inside, aren't you?"

And Mello snaps. His eyes bulge and his hands ball into fists. But he's never been good at directing his aggression in the right place, and his knuckles end up burried into the nearest victim.

L.

And L's unguarded self falls prey to gravity.

And, of course, Near's camera is a mask as he pretends to film the spectacle.

Some form of violence is sure to break out. The silence becomes stale, moldy, and unbearable.

Then... nothing happens.

L sits up and Near puts his camera down. Matt raises a hand to touch the bandages over his eye, and Beyond laughs in a soft, sinister way.

But nothing happens.

Then L resumes talking. "There are two types of ticks to every species. The hard tick, and the soft tick. There's not much of a difference, aside from the texture of the adult males and the egg-production of the females. But... take two ticks -any two. Maybe they're the both hard or both soft; or maybe they're different. Put them both in a small sealed container with a shallow pool. No vent for oxygen. No food. -Now, logic dictates that they'll both die, but psychology theorizes that at least one will die in cold blood. And do you know why? Because at least one of those ticks will have some kind of fear: fear of dying, fear of water, or maybe they're afraid of the other tick's intentions. But... that fear will drive it to extremes, and in only a little while, one tick will be dead, floating in the shallow pool while the other perches on top, victorious."

Hearing this odd story, Mello grabs his head and grumbles that he doesn't get it.

And Near scoffs.

And Matt murmurs: "I get it. Like when they say a trapped animal would sooner chew off its leg than die. Right? The same principles apply."

With a shake of his head and growl of frustration, Beyond denies Matt's comparison. "It's not like that at all! Now be quiet. -I have a better story."

"I don't want any more stories!" Mello shrieks, arms flailing and face contorting in rage.

"And I'm tempted to cut you into pieces, harvest your insides, and hang your skin on the wall in the cabin!" Beyond argues this point, and everything grows silent again.

Not even a cricket dares to make a chirp.

And finally, Beyond begins his story. "Years ago, but not too many, there was a frog... and an elf. And the elf-"

"Wrong story," L interjects boredly. "Tell them the one about the-"

"I know, I know." And again the story commences. "There was a fire. A big one. A family of five lived there. Five. A mom, dad, and three kids. Three boys. But after the fire, there was... no mommy or daddy or baby. Two of the boys, they made it. And they went to a new home, but... their new home wasn't as good as their old one. And the people in it were liars. And those boys, well -" and the storyteller laughs. Hard. So hard that he falls over, body twisting and writhing until he comes to a studden stillness, body sprawled, eyes wide, and mouth agape. Then, slowly, his mouth moves and a faint whisper comes forth. "And then L and I ran away."

A confession. Or a story. In the end, it doesn't make a difference.

Yet Near supplies the summary. "You and L were the two boys from the fire back in St Louis. I read up on that."

"Just another skeleton in the closet," Beyond says, voice suddenly lacking emotion and eyelids drooping to portray lethargy. And it is with a yawn and a languid stretch that he says: "I'll tell you the real truth about Fat Camp one day, but not today. I'm too tired today." He pauses and points in the general direction of his alleged brother. "L, will you fill my quota today? I think I'll just stay here for a bit."

L says nothing, though he does gesture for the three younger campers to follow him as he turns away.

Matt is the first to follow, and Mello scurries after Matt, grabbing his hand and saying "As much as I hate to admit it, you're slightly more sane than anyone else I've met here. I'm not letting you blindly wander into the crosshairs of danger. I might need you later."

To this, Matt responds "I think you're just scared."

"Scared? Of what?" Mello... always quick to snap. Take the offense in favor of a good defense.

And Matt, so blunt, as always. "Of being alone. Being left behind. Not being good enough."

And no further conversation follows.

But... Near stays behind, camera in lap as he kneels beside the resting Camp Counselor. Leaning close, he says: "You're still lying. I know who you are and what you really did, but you're a good actor. And I'm terribly bored. A broken camera and only one good actor. What good is that?"

...

* * *

**/I'll try for a speedy update, but no promises. Review! Keep me motivated./**


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **A lovely update for my wonderful readers. (Unfortunately, not much happens.) Don't forget to review and keep me motivated. XD -ALSO! I'M TAKING SUGGESTIONS FOR FUTURE CHARACTERS TO KILL OFF!

…

* * *

Between the silence and screaming, conversation seems to be the key to sanity. In low volumes, words are exchanged... but those words are never substantial.

They mean nothing.

L tells a story. Then he admits that he never really tells the same story twice. He says: "when you've exhausted the truth, stories are all that's left."

And the redheaded youth contemplates this while a blonde companion bites back a growl of irritation.

But L pays them no mind. Oblivious to their concerns, he's talking again. Another fib. A tall tale. An adventure that could have happened but never did. This one's about a stray dog he once befriended... until it grew rabid and attacked him. -L claims that he and Beyond are not twins, but after the attack L's face was gone -mangled and bloody with loose meat hanging from his jawline like heavy, wet frayed fabrics - and it had to be completely reconstructed. "All old photos were lost so the surgeons based their sculpting and skin graphing off of Beyond."

Such an incredible tale -that is, if had been true.

And because of this, Mello's anger finally bubbles to the surface. His emotion ranges from that of a steaming tea kettle to an erupting volcano.

It's the disaster with Mt. Vesuvius all over again.

His hair is a frizzy, tangled, dirty mess of dishwater blonde, and his face is red from heat and aggression. But he takes several deep breaths and calms down; his face gradually returns to a more normal color. Then he takes it upon himself to say "no more stories, L."

"But I like the stories," Matt says.

And L pats Matt on the head in a way that is almost affectionate; the act seems out of place under such circumstances.

Then L turns his attention to the blonde and gives a rather simple order. "In that case, _you_ tell _me_ a story. A true one, if you're tired of nonsense."

So Mello racks his brain for things he might share. True things. But almost anything he can come up with isn't much better than what L has already told. Still, he presses on with determination. "My mother was lovely but mad; she held my hand as we walked through the park -I could smell the cool, crisp air that carried the scent of wildflowers. We saw some ducks, and I wanted to feed them. But she said no, I didn't get to feed them. Then, when I ignored her denial and leaned in for a closer look, Mom pushed me into the water and left... and I think she _knew_ I couldn't swim."

To this, Matt says nothing; in place of a plausible reaction, he's tearing the bandages off his face and gently running his fingers over the mess that was once his eye. The eyelid is both dented and swollen, but this time it is shut. Pus and blood are crusted around it, and it looks exactly like it would in the movies -shiny and bulging, and a little wet where fresh fluids have gathered and seeped. A poorly sculpted prosthetic attached with a medical-grade adhesive.

In regards to the blonde camper's story, L simply looks bored and apathetic. Then he says: "you should have lied. Now I know that water bothers you, and I could use that to my advantage if I wanted. I could drown you in a pond. I could hold you under water until you stopped breathing... but, lucky for you, I have no use for your body parts right now. I would have been much more entertained if you would have told me about-"

And Mello has no intentions on furthering this conversation; his face turns pale, a shade to rival a certain film artist. Between L's statement of possibilities and Matt's sudden fascination with the swelling mass of emptiness on his disfiguring face, he feels sick all over again. He grabs the redhead's hand tightly and pulls him closer. "C'mon, Matt. We need to go before L's _crazy_ starts to rub off on you."

Matt stumbles from the force of Mello's movement but recoils quickly, withdrawing his hand and whispering something incoherent.

And L sighs quietly. "One week. Play by the rules for six more days, and then I'll help you out. It doesn't get any easier than that."

"I want to go home now," Mello declares childishly, stomping his foot to stress his eagerness.

Then L responds with: "one week. -Besides, what are you missing by being here? Do you honestly want to go back to the mundane? Do you want your life decided for you?"

Mello thinks about L's words but does not comment.

However, Matt does verbally respond, voice slightly louder with an assertiveness that had been foreign to him before. "I'm not missing anything. Back home, I was a failure; I wasn't good enough. But here... -Here, I have a sense of glory." And he holds up that shiny rock like it has all the answers: the physical incarnation of God's will and testament. A fortune teller. An omen of blessings.

But Mello swipes his hand and takes that rock, throwing it as hard as he can and then shoving his redheaded peer against a nearby tree. "It's a damn rock." He grabs the front of the redhead's blue and white tanktop and twists the fabric, warping the large _03_ that is printed on it. "_And_ I need you to at least _pretend_ to be normal."

"And _you_ were trying to hide behind a smile, but it wasn't even a nice smile," Matt counters, closing his good eye and feeling a sense of accomplishment run through him. Standing up to the blonde, he's a hero, if only for a moment. "At least when I smile, I'm not faking it."

And L is there to intervene, with a hard kick to Mello's ribs, knocking him to the ground and away from Matt. "That's enough, Mello. Matt is entitled to his words just as you are. Now, if you're going to continue this line of behavior, please pick a direction and go."

At this point, Mello's reeling from shock at being kicked and he's at a loss for words, so he doesn't say anything; he keeps his mouth shut to avoid stammering.

"What about our group?" Matt asks, good eye opening as he moves away from the tree. "L? What about the group? Beyond, Near, you, Mello, and-"

"There is no group," L bluntly interrupts, leaving two confused faces to stare at him before he continues. "I'm sure either myself or Beyond has mentioned that there are no groups at Wammy's, and any group that forms never lasts for long. Arguments start and people turn on one another. -Killing a camper, that's fine. But killing a camper that you considered a friend, that's a bit different."

This is a fact, dully stated, and Mello understands it. "Like politics. -Well what the fuck's the point of staying here to get away from that shit if the same logic applies here?!" And just like that... his inner politician is destroyed. That well-crafted smile, those careful words -all gone! He scrambles to his feet and gives the raven a piercing glare before reaching for the redhead's hand once more. "As you wanted, L, I'll play by the rules for a week, and I'll live, dammit. Matt and I will BOTH live. And when that week is up, you have to help us out. -Now, do we have a deal?" -The politican returns.

L is skeptical, but he gives a slow, thoughtful nod to affirm.

"No," the sharp and demanding tone; it's Mello's voice again. "I want you to shake on it." And he extends his hand, awaiting the grasp of the veteran camper.

L almost hesitates, but his hand slips into Mello's.

The physical manifestation of a promise is made and the two part their ways, L trekking further into the woods and Mello dragging Matt as far away from the dirt path as possible.

...

Meanwhile, Near and Beyond are staring each other down, neither backing off nor furthering the confrontation. Their wits are seemingly passed back and forth through some kind of telepathy until Beyond remarks: "The sun is moving westward. Don't you have a quota to fill?"

To this, the paler, younger camper responds with a shake of his head. "No. Because, unlike the others, I _do_ know all the rules and technicalities. I know how Fat Camp began; I know a lot of the stories that go with it; and I know why people are sent here."

And Beyond's face splits to reveal a set of crooked teeth. "Then... why would you come here so _willingly_?"

"For the same reason that people _stay_ here so willingly."

Then the dark haired Camp Counselor nods, red eyes blinking. "In that case, I have a proposition for you..."

...

* * *

**/Next chapter will have more on Near and Beyond. Plus, I've already planned two or three gorey scenes and the introduction of another character. Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Review./**


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note:- IMPORTANT! PLEASE READ. DO NOT IGNORE. **This isn't the full chapter. Actually, it's only about half of what I intended to write, but there's a chance I won't get to write for a while, so I wanted to post at least this much. I'll try to update again, but personal problems are getting in the way. I've been... really down lately. Things have been so bad. Granted, I have more downs than ups, I usually look to my friends for help, but... the friends I have, I can't burden them anymore. I can't. It's not fair. I love them too much for that. And I can't deal with these problems on my own. I don't know what the future holds, but I'll write if I can, and if not... I'm terribly sorry. -if anyone likes something I started but haven't finished, I'm willing to allow you to adopt it and finish it as you please. -Fellow writers, please take this into consideration. I'm not okay, and I'm not sure if I will be anytime soon.

…

* * *

Whatever strength or wealth one has, it's gone the moment they set foot off that charter bus and onto the desolate grounds of Fat Camp. That strength or wealth, the nobility and pride that go with it, it all vanishes so completely that one won't recognize themselves within the hour.

Looking in a mirror, a scholar will sight a potential terrorist -eyes manic and mouth twisted off to the side in ways that look inhumanly possible. A freak show. A carnival attraction.

Turning away from that reflection, the once kind-hearted kinsman will see fit to attack the nearest bystander. Driven by madness, propelled by adrenaline, and consoled by a mutated form of rationalization, their biggest war is an internal one. Blows striking from the inside out. Insanity for cheap, medication for the humble.

Fundamentals, bloodying both hands for the first time, a youth becomes a true camper of Wammy's. From a caterpillar to a butterfly. Metamorphosis. Once it happens, it can't be reversed.

Rust and dirt and coagulated essence of human beings, it all gathers beneath the fingernails of children and teens and young adults. A sediment of sorts; a silent documentary of the deeds that are done.

But foul and fair are adjectives that do not come into play.

Not here.

Not at this particular camp.

Not for the campers that struggle to keep their weight low and collect a quota based on a system that is allegedly predetermined.

And not for a world that revolves around a barbaric tradition of mutilation accompanied by a simple balancing act between the living and the living impaired.

These are not stories to tell children or grandchildren. These are not things one wants a friend or family member to know.

Truth becomes a disease.

To escape truth, some simply don't speak of it. Others make up new truths. Regardless, reality is hidden to some degree - even when the remains of a fractured skull are cleaned and speared with stakes that are placed in the ground to mark territory that someone has claimed.

And this works: claiming territory. It has to in order for some of the more sociopathic campers to survive. Because even Fat Camp has rules regarding property, taxes, and criminal activity; it just happens to be monitored and enforced in ways that are different than that of the free world.

The veteran campers know this. And they'll share their secrets the moment they believe a new camper is ready.

For a camper to be ready, they must fully accept the warped environment and conditions for survival; they must understand that the wieght they carry is a burden to everyone; and they must be prepared to make life and death decisions at a moment's notice.

...

Beyond has Near's hand in his; Near's other hand is holding the lifeless camera. The two are traipsing through the woods on a path that only the red-eyed raven can see, and they stop long enough for the elder of the two to grab a flat-headed shovel that leans against a nearby Dogwood.

"This," Beyond says, voice smooth and somehow sinister, "is the key to all that I know. All I've ever been can be found with this one tool." His words are full of emotion at the start of his proclamation, but there's an ounce of stoicism by the end of his miniscule means of information. A demon's lilt.

Of course, by now his hands are filled by the splintering wood of his shovel, and Near watches from a few feet away, camera close -a lifeline. And he takes that camera and presses it over his eye; it becomes a mask as he make believes that it is in working order.

And, if only for pretend, Near is content to film, and Beyond is ecstatic to share a secret. Children at play. Hide and Seek versus Ring Around the Roses.

_Tag, you're it!_

The flat end of the shovel is pressed into loose soil, making a _'thunk'_ sound when it hits something concealed by earth. The dirt is quickly moved away and a wooden trap door is unveiled.

"Down here," Beyond says, dropping the shove and grabbing a worn old rope, using it to lift the trapdoor.

Looking down, Near can see nothing but darkness. An infinite chasm of filth. A bottomless pit.

But then the Camp Counselor, he takes the initiative, kicking the shovel further away. In the next moment, he's got both hands on the edge of the pit, and his body is halfway in; he's climbing in, adjusting the way his body is positioned until his foot slides neatly into one of many holes that line the interior to form a makeshift ladder.

Seconds pass as he climbes in, lower and lower.

Near watches curiously, silent. Then he follows suit, but not before tucking the camera into the waistline of his pants for safe keeping.

After minutes of descent, the albino finds his feet on firm, flat ground- a rather solid collaboration of rock and dirt and limestone. It's dark, but after turning around, he can make out the vague silhouette of his Camp Counselor holding a flickering lighter.

"In the beginning, God created Heaven and Earth," Beyond says with a smile, his own carbon dioxide combatting the small flame in his grip. "But I don't know that there even is a God, so what does that tell us?"

To this, Near says nothing.

And Beyond continues. "It tells us what we've always known. People will always look for something to believe in. Children believe in fat men who bring presents. Christians believe in a mythical man that grants miracles. -Do you believe in anything, Near?"

And Near thinks for a moment, giving a nod and stating: "I believe in justice. Facts. Right and wrong. Anything with Evidence."

This answer, simple as it is, it makes the raven grin. "I like you." A small stretch of silence takes hold; then Beyond crouches low and gests to a small tunnel. "The proposition stands as an offer that will not be withdrawn, but I strongly advise you to go... before it's too late."

"Proposition? Remind me again, what that proposition entails..."

"...I'll get you new batteries for your camera; you will shadow me, learn more about Wammy's than you ever hoped to know, and... in return, when my brother agrees to help your blonde friend escape, I leave in his place."

"But I don't understand why you want to leave. I thought you were well adapted here."

"Adapted? Yes. Happy? No, no more happy than a caged animal. The madness... it traps us here. I know there's more out there, but I can't leave. Not until I know things will remain unchanged here. That is where you come in, Near. Wammy's needs a Camp Counselor. L, myself, and Kira have handled the duties for almost three years now, but L submits easily and too often lets rule-breakers run free, and Kira is far too controlling and obsessed with public decapitations."

"_Kira_?"

"...Nevermind. That is a secret that you are not yet ready for. But, for now, follow me. Into the tunnel. Don't be scared."

-Crawling through a tunnel -so small that even the petite form of the albino could barely slide through -was simple enough. That tunnel leads to a generously large mine shaft. The walls are lined with torches, and small caverns are barred or boarded to contain _people_. Trapping them like _animals_. Holding cells for human-sized rats. A lab for the innate stalker turned murderer.

"This is my vault. When I find a rule breaker that is not properly punished, I bring them here; and when I find myself -or a worthy camper – in need of a few extra pounds to meet their quota, I help out a bit." Beyond points to a chair in the center of the vault, in which is a pale body, lifeless and shackled... but still _alive_. Still _breathing_.

A female's body. Her hair is dark and her lips are gone, blood cracked and dried around her chin and a serated knife sheathed in her thigh.

Beyond approaches the body silently, easily plucking the blade from her flesh and running a free hand through her filthy hair. "This is Takada." He fists his hand in her hair, and her withering body jerks with the simple motion. "She broke a rule a few months ago and has been here ever since." Dropping the knife and releasing the hair, he turns away, grabbing a small metal device from somewhere near; then he places that device between the exposed, fleshless teeth of the woman's skull. "This is a mouth restraint, but I've modified it to my liking. Rather than simply hold a mouth open for medical or sexual purposes, I can use it to completely unhinge her jaw; and with enough pressure, it will snap right off. -But I have no need to use it on her. Poor Takada already lost most of her organs, her tongue and toes. Her whore lips and spleen. She's mostly hollowed inside. Notice the way her flesh sags around her bones where I have removed fatty tissue and muscle. - I was going to start taking her bones out too, but I've grown much too bored with her." He paused before finally revealing his reason for sharing this hellhole with the albino. "She's yours, Near... if you want her, but know this: taking her life right now will serve as the equivalent to adding your signature to a contract."

* * *

Matt, with his red, red hair and his infected face -because, yes, the swelling pustules indicated much infection which spread beneath his flesh- rests lazily against a tree. "Poverty is the new nobility," he says to no one in particular.

But the nearby blonde gives him a nasty glare and tells him to shut up. "We can beat this," he huffs. "Six days. And, if I've got this right, we don't even have to fill a quota every day. So, you and I -two of us. Six days. Between the two of us, we need a maximum of 12 bodies equal to or greater than our weight, and I'm guessing that we weigh about the same. -So, what we need to do, is figure out the minimum of what we need to offer. Then we'll do what we've gotta do and get the fuck out of here."

"Why?"

"Because this is wrong."

"Everything is wrong, depending on how you look at it."

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Then shut up before I slit your thr-" and just like that, the conversation dies with Mello unable to finish his threat.

Because, somehow, he's changed, and this fact scares him. But he'll never admit that.

"Just... stay by my side, Matt. We'll do this together."

And Matt says nothing. Instead, he moves away from the tree and toward the blonde, wrapping his arms around his fellow camper and holding tight.

Mello's whole body tenses at the feeling, but he holds in the verbal protest that wants so badly to be heard.

And Matt says, his voice a mere whisper: "it's okay. My father wasn't like yours, but he was just as bad, I know. That's why you're scared. You don't want him to think bad of you. You want to succeed and obtain his approval -but even if you do everything right, it won't be enough." With that, he retracts his arms and steps back, so sure that he'd made some form of impact.

And Mello's reaction -his blue eyes close tightly and his lips form a line; his hands become shaking balls of emotion; meteors ready to make an impact. But his tone is calm as he says "I know... but I'm not ready to become a criminal. And I'm not ready to fuckin' die either. And if, for one minute, you think I'm going to let you run off and fuck up, you're dead wrong."

* * *

...

**-if you haven't already, please read my author's note. Thank you.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay and upcoming cliffhanger(s), but here you go.

**Also: **I wanna thank my _anonymous Guest_ and _Otaku Kid1996_ for their support.

…

* * *

At some point in time, people are clock-watchers. They are always asking the time, always trying to be punctual, always trying to keep things on schedule. Their minds are wrapped around the hands on a clock, and a watch is strapped to their wrists, ticking. Ticking. Ticking. Always ticking, always moving, and always warning that it's almost time for school; they've been in the lobby for three hours and have yet to see a doctor; they've got a date and their partner is just a little too late; and oh, look, it's bedtime.

But no one _here_ sees time like they used to. It does not just march on with the simplicity of a clock -pendulums and spinning gears. No. For campers at Wammy's, time is forever expanding and contracting, spreading and sponging and infecting. Time is a cancer. And everyone has it. It's blackening their hearts and lungs, spreading beneath their flesh like mold in a trailer park.

Death is the ultimate Chemo treatment.

But time runs differently when the camera is rolling -at least, this is what the pale one says, toes ripping through soaked cotton fibers that used to be socks. His camera, the lens is still cracked but the battery inside is new, retrieved by the Camp Counselor from a dusty tackle box somewhere in his Vault of screaming prisoners and decay.

The little red light is lit up, proudly declaring: _ACTION_ as it sits there so innocently, capturing its owners foul deeds on tape.

Trapping a piece of history.

Storing it away.

Hiding it and displaying it, all at once.

Contradicting.

And Near, the albino with chilled toes and cracked toe nails, his hand holds a knife as he plays the role of an antagonist, breeching morale in favor of getting what he wants. He's plunging the silver of the blade into the dying woman in the chair, and after only a moment, she gasps no longer.

The act is so simple, it's almost a waste... filming it. But alas, the deed is done, and Beyond wordlessly demands and recieves help in cutting and pealing the still warm flesh from its infrastructure.

There is surprisingly little blood, and the flesh comes off in one large piece: a skin suit. And shedding his clothes, the raven attempts to pull it on like a costume made of spandex - but halfway through the process, he stops. Remnants of this and that have been transferred from the inside of the human pelt to the outside of his own body. He frowns at this and pulls the gruesome garb off, tossing it away like garbage. Then, he pulls his own clothes back on and they sag around his skeletal frame.

"Her flesh was no good," he says boredly. "It didn't fit."

"Of course it didn't," Near responds. "Her body and yours were nothing alike, and -why did you want her skin again?"

"Because she was paler than me. I'd take your skin, but you're much too small, and I need you."

"Is there a reason this is important to you -being pale?"

"Yes."

"Care to share?"

"If I did, I could not guarantee any truth to what I might say. Validity is something that I have no use for. Egro, communication is mostly pointless."

"Beyond... you are the single most fascinating person I've ever met."

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that."

And the camera is still rolling. As it does, it catches something that neither occupants of the Vault seem to notice. A slight refraction misting through the air.

A colorless, weightless chemical; its odor is drowned out by the stench of death.

And that chemical, it consumes the oxygen, so slowly.

But they don't know this. Not yet. Not until their lungs are full...

* * *

And of course, time is not only affecting the film artist and the young adult mentoring him. It affects the noncomittal duo who have broken away from the non-existing pack of bloodhounds.

Mello and Matt, they are close to one another, so close. Hiding in bushes and watching a spectacle of fellow campers, older than themselves.

Those campers are mad. Wild. Barbaric. They shout wordlessly unto the heavens and bring cleavers down on one another, extracting flesh and tossing it into metal buckets, filling 'em to the brim with unwanted slabs of unsightly gore.

Torn skin here, a missing hand there. Here a scream, there a wail, everywhere some blood, blood.

Then they pull each other's hair; it comes off in nasty globs with remnants of scalp attached in flakes of white marbled with pink and red.

Next, they pull teeth... but not one of these teens have the qualifications to be an orthodontist.

Their tongues roll and their heads lol, arms raised and eyes closed in this vulgar display of church speak until coherency is found in the form of a pristine young man with hair the color of cherrywood treebark, and eyes to match the sun-dried mud. This young man, he speaks so loud, so clear. He says: "The quota is filled in record time. I'd call myself impressed, but I'm not. I knew you would do so well. And for your efforts, I'll reward you. -Whiskey for my loyal followers. Numb the pain and cleanse the wounds. -Misa, be a dear and deliver the spoils."

In an instant, a hairless female, naked save for a dirty sheet wrapped and tied around her waist -she clambers to her feet and stumbles away from the group, coming back with two large bottles with scratched up labels. She opens them, using her gangly teeth for a bottle opener. She takes a drink and passes both bottles.

One by one, a camper drinks and passes it along.

This is their own personal celebration...or so they think. Because seconds pass and the one called Misa appears sick; her eyes are glassy and she can no longer support her own weight. Then, the other campers follow suit, gasping and choking and falling prey to a devilish trick, to which the brunette man with the pristine appearance and theatrical composure says: "Misa, spit up the poison and help me gather the bodies.."

-Mello and Matt, they witness this much, but then they turn away. Because, as horrible as this is, it's not their place to step in.

Once they are a considerable distance away and comforted by the scent of thick maple sap, they take a break, for they are weary.

"Dammit, this isn't easy. We need to establish rules," the blonde says, voice cracking at the start of dehydration.

And the redhead nods. "'Kay." He's simple when he speaks, always.

"Rule One: don't fuckin' kill me. Don't run off. And always do what I tell you."

"And that is all part of rule one?"

"Yes."

"'Kay."

"Rule Two: we only kill someone if and when I say."

"'Kay. But I pick the third rule. - And the third rule is, when you leave, you have to find something that makes you happy."

Mello hesitates but gives a nod. Then says: "Alright, but you have to do me a favor."

"What's that, Mello?"

"Close your eyes. -Erm, uh, eye. Close your _good_ eye."

"M'kay." And Matt does close his eye.

And Mello leans close, so close his breath washes all over the fellow camper's face, and yet he leans closer. He runs his tongue along his lips for a brief second, moistening them with the little saliva stored in his mouth. Then, those two rows of chapped tissue, they connect with that of the redhead's, and for just a moment, a kiss is shared.

Pulling away, the pus from Matt's eye rubs against Mello's cheek, sticking and stringing.

Mello says nothing, but his gaze travels along the yellow line of infection that now connects the two of them; his eyes bulge and he looks sick. His lips part, as if to scream, but he controls himself, shutting his mouth and patiently waiting for the redhead's reaction to their out of place intimacy.

And Matt's reaction? He opens his eye and blinks slowly. A light dusting of pink hits his face and makes his freckles more pronounced, and he is the epitome of bashfulness... until he notices the pus string, to which he murmurs a quick apology before bringing his hand up and collecting it around his fingers -like one might do to an obtrusive spiderweb; then he uses his other hand to wipe the remains from his peer's cheek. "Why'd you...-?" He begins but does not finish, playing with the pus by rolling the sticky substance round his fingers.

And Mello tells him to shut up. Then he elaborates. "Never kissed anyone," was the lame and simple answer. So simple, he must've learned from Matt. "You probably haven't kissed anyone yet either. If anything happens, I don't think either of us should die without having done that, at least." Concluding this, he awaits for Matt to continue with something or another, perhaps to stake a claim to heterosexuality, but what comes is not that.

No such rant. Instead, Matt says: "What's your home like?" Saying this, he brings his hand -the one with remnants of the slime-yellow pus - to his mouth and rids it of filth, tongue catching and cradling the thickening fluid.

And after reeling from surprise, Mello ignores the vulgar display of pus-removal and recovers with: "Oh, well my dad-"

Matt interrupts: he's the brave little athlete that couldn't play sports but could _kill_... and intrude on his blonde companion. "No, not your _family_. Just... your home. Where you _live_. Stuff you like to do. Y'know..."

And Mello frowns. "It's big. And... I live in it. There's not really much to do."

"Go on."

"And... that's it. -Look, Matt, I appreciate you trying to bond with me, or be my friend, or whatever the fuck you're trying to do... but _don't_. Okay?"

"I'm just asking because-"

"Why?"

"...because I don't really have one. -You talk about going home. That's all you've talked about since we got here. You talked about everything wrong and wanting to go home; and you act like I'm crazy for not wanting to go home. But, truth is, I don't have a home to go home to."

"But I saw your mother when you got on the bus. So-"

"You saw me outside a diner, getting hugged by my mom before I got on the bus. But you know nothing about my home... Mello, believe me when I say that this camp is already better than any home I've known. I'm not crazy."

"...I know you're not crazy. If you were, I'd have your head and hands in a shoebox by now."

The two then share an awkward laugh. The kind of laugh that can only be found at Fat Camp when two practical strangers realize that they'll never be the same people they used to be. Even when simply speaking to one another, death is in the back of their minds; and to some degree, they wonder if they've lost any weight -their growling tummies tell them yes, but their lack of appetite is deceptive.

So one must wonder, if they ever get out, can they leave the madness behind? Can they look at another human the same way, as an equal rather than predator or prey?

* * *

L doesn't mind being on his own. He has no desire for companionship, but he does prefer to know the whearabouts of his kin. Then again, he likes to know everything: who enters Fat Camp, who perishes, who shows up at the scales with an offering, and who is eligible for decapitation.

He doesn't care much for the decapitation, but the fact that there is some manner of trial and justice to be performed, that's always made him feel alright with the situations.

If he has to kill or be killed, he'll draw a blade and put his martial arts and parkour to the test, fighting tooth and nail with the best of 'em, but... new campers aren't like that. Not yet. And perhaps that's why he always takes an immediate liking to them.

But... their innocence can't last forever. And soon they will be nothing more than a heap of meat to be placed on the scale.

L knows this.

L preaches this.

L knows everything, almost.

He and his brother, they've been there for a few years. They know the truth about it all. They know that they are sick in the head. Like rabid dogs, foaming at the mouth.

That's it.

Dogs. The perfect example.

Your best friend and pet, loyal as any other, he could love you for years. The same one you've trained from a pup, teaching him not to shit in the house or to jump on the furniture, he's a good boy. But one bite from a rabid animal, and soon you're faced with Cujo.

Lock the doors, grab a shotgun.

He wants to play, but he's not looking for a game of Fetch.

-The same principles apply to children at Wammy's; they're out for blood.

Why?

Simple.

Though L will never verbally recount the truth, too addicted to the ideals behind a simple campfire story, he knows.

It's all about the cross between _tradition_ and _manipulation_. Sort of like _when in Rome. _Go somewhere new and do what those people do. Even when your brain tells you it's wrong, staying there long enough will introduce you to what is called _'the foot in the door' effect. _That's a fancy way of saying that once you've done something small, you rationalize that something a little bigger, more dangerous, more _wrong_, can't be that bad.

Like how drug addicts move onto harder substances. Marijuana to Cocaine.

Take those factors and add it to the human will to _survive_, and you've got generations of normal people ready to turn into psychopaths.

_And it began with a simple experiment. Back in the 1980's -not so long ago, really – 13 random children were kidnapped, busses hijacked while en route to various camps, and they were dropped off by an old cabin in the woods, miles upon miles from nowhere, let alone anywhere. No phones or any means of communication. No food. Nothing but whatever was in the single bags that they could bring. They were left there for a week, and then the scientists moved in for damage control. They took notes on how the campers adapted, and then left. In an out, a proficient job. -And though years have passed and no one has seen any scientists, children and teens are still showing up. Whether or not it's for research, it's hard to say._

So simple, so stupid. But L knows. He's told a camper or two, but he's grown bored of repetition, and now, if asked, he'll talk about how the camp was meant to be a retreat but with nuclear waste dumped in the pond, things went terribly wrong -science fiction.

Ask L anything, and he'll reward you with the most believable lie you can imagine.

L has the capacity to think normal, to be rational, but he's in love with story-telling, and he's grown fascinated with the number of bones he can count and how well he can map out one's anatomy. He's still very sane; he's just a little too passively accepting of things.

And as he acknowledges this in his mind, his physical form, skin like latex stretching over bones, it saunters through the woods until he finds a particular brunette and his monstrous sidekick.

Spotting them, L says: "seven corpses."

To this, the brunette smiles and nods. "Yeah, seven. Good to see you, L."

"I'm not here for talk," he says, eyes portraying the years of hardship. "Light, I need three corpses."

"Three? Hollow or in tact? I should warn you that I don't hollow them out anymore," Light responds tersely. "Too much dirty work."

And L shrugs. "I just need to fill my quota and Beyond's. Two should be enough, but I don't want to under estimate."

"Well, suppose I offer you three corpses, what do I get in return?"

And L pretends to think, but he knows the routine already; he's done this sort of trade more than a few times. "I'll let you pick a part of me, as long as I'm still able-bodied afterwards. And, in six days, I'll offer you a new follower."

At this, Light arches a brow, showing his interest. "I want an arm-"

"No. I want to remain able-bodied. I will not allow any limbs to be lost on my person."

"Then I want a piece of your ribs; you're out of expendable organs, I'm sure. I'll take out some of your ribcage, and... -Tell me about my new follower."

L subconsciously places a hand on his ribcage and takes a deep breath. In his mind, he calculates the plausible number of new scars that will join his many others, a congregation of twisted and puckered lumps and lines. Then, with a dull tone with which one might state 2 and 2 is 4, he says: "A redhead. He's partnered up with a blonde, but in six days, the blonde won't be around anymore. The redhead is submissive and dependent; you'll be able to handle him."

"And this is your offer... for the corpses?"

"Yes."

"Well, L, looks like we've got a deal."

...

* * *

**/More questions than answers? Of course. I'll try to update soon. Until then, reviews are appreciated. Plus, if you ask nicely, I might offer a spoiler. XD/**


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: **Survival of the Fittest

**Summary: **Mello, Matt, and Near all all bound for camp, but Wammy's isn't what any of them expect.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own DN or anything referenced, and the idea is far from original, but here's my take on it.

**Author's Note: **Filler chapter. Full chapter in progress.

…

* * *

It's not about fitness; it's not about health; it's not about getting that jiggly, flabby shit off your belly and thighs.

It has nothing to do with your fuckin' diet, you filthy wannabe narcissist.

This is about life or death.

What are you physically and mentally capable of handling?

How fast can you run?

Are you strong enough to plunge a blunt object into someone's flesh and leave a fatal wound?

When all is said and done, what are the odds of you walking away with a beating heart, two lungs, and a sound mind?

_This. Is. Fat Camp._

There are no teams, but alliances come and go, usually ending with spilled insides and desecrated outsides.

There are no games, but losers are measured by the number of skulls graphitized on the _WELCOME_ sign near the front gate. A pictograph for the those who can count high enough.

Ah, yes, the front fuckin' gate: an escape, or so some like to think. But after even a day in this hell, what good would it do to walk away? With the things you've seen, the limbs you've lost, and the memories you've gained, you'll never be normal again.

So, before even considering an escape, one must determine their amount of remaining sanity. Then again, if you can murder more than half a dozen people and still feel fine... you're not very sane at all, are you?

...

* * *

**/Full chapter is in progress, but it's taking longer than I expected, so here's a filler. Feel free to review./**


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